


sweeter than heaven (hotter than hell)

by humanveil



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Episode: s11e06 Spooked, F/M, Infidelity, Season/Series 11, established EO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: “I’m not jealous,” Elliot answers eventually. Even as he says it, he can taste the lie. What’s worse is that he knows Olivia can see right through him.
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Elliot Stabler
Comments: 15
Kudos: 61





	sweeter than heaven (hotter than hell)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting idle in my drafts for ages, but i miss these two so i thought i’d finally get around to finishing it. it’s basically a glorified pwp set right before liv’s date with dean in spooked, and their relationship is one of those situations where they’re together but like, he’s still married and she’s still dating. it’s a little bit rough since i haven’t written proper svu fic in a while, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

Olivia’s apartment is quiet. Elliot lounges on her bed, suit jacket discarded. He can feel the tension in the air; understated, but present. Can _see_ it. Olivia’s never been good at hiding it from him—he knows her body language too well, can read it in the way she’s been holding herself: tight jaw, tense shoulders, the furrow between her brow. It’d started once they’d made the discovery, the evidence of Porter’s betrayal laid bare, so _obvious_ once they’d had all the facts. He’d tried to bring it up, had stopped her just outside Morales’ office, his voice low, his body curling into hers, arm lifted and palm flat on the wall above her shoulder. _You sure you wanna do this,_ he’d asked. Had started to ask. She’d cut him off with a _look_ , just one, the message clear. That’d been that: No ifs, buts, or arguments. He’s her partner. He’ll always back her play, even if he doesn’t always agree. Just like she does for him.

That’s one thing, Elliot thinks, that’s only worsened over the years. He has a hard time feeling guilty about it.

He looks around Olivia’s room, at the little trinkets that line her dresser, the photos hung on her wall. He’s been inside before, of course, but it’s never lost its appeal. There is something fascinating about Olivia’s apartment, something so uniquely _hers_. She’s joked before that the precinct feels more like home than home, that her apartment is little more than a pit-stop; he gets that, because he works the same hours that she does, but it’s different for him. There are other people that use his house, a family who leave their mark. Olivia’s apartment is all her. Elliot sees traces of her routine everywhere: Case files are stacked on her bedside table, a half-read book is left face down on the dresser, the jacket she’d worn last week hangs from her doorknob, a post-it note sits stuck to her mirror, its bright-pink paper covered in his messy penmanship, an altered court date scrawled in black. He’d noticed the same thing when he’d first walked in, the kitchen and living area filled with the same traces, her apartment a snapshot of her life, personal and yet impersonal for the same reason: she’s always coming and going.

He wonders what it means for his coat to be thrown over her couch, for the coffee he prefers to be stocked in her cupboard, for his aftershave to sit on her dresser, the clear bottle tucked between her own perfumes.

His gaze falls back to where Olivia stands, half-hidden in her wardrobe. “What do you think,” she calls, voice muffled, and he watches as she re-emerges with two dresses held in hand. One is a short deep red, the other a sleek black. She holds them up against her dressing gown, the flimsy fabric the only thing she’s got on. “Red or black?”

Elliot licks at his bottom lip, teeth following the swipe of his tongue. He does it subconsciously, absentmindedly, his attention fixed entirely on Olivia. The tension that had plagued her body has eased slightly since their arrival; whether she’s pushing past it through sheer force of will, or whether being here has actually calmed her down, Elliot can’t say for sure. All he knows is that the tell-tale signs of stress are waning, the frown she’d worn before replaced by a small, secretive smirk as she looks at him, waiting.

He clears his throat and looks between both dresses. “Black,” he says, finally. 

He’s seen her in it before. It’s short, cuts off above her knee, has a halter neck and a low back. She’d worn it once about a year ago, during an undercover gig, and he’d been so distracted with how it hugged her body that he’d nearly missed their perp. Olivia arches an eyebrow at him now, and Elliot can tell she’s thinking of the same night. Of how he’d barely been able to keep his hands off her once everything was said and done.

He shrugs, one-shouldered, and mirrors her smirk as she places the red dress back inside her wardrobe. “You’re so predictable,” she says, a laugh to it. He can’t help but smile back.

She turns her back to him then, and reaches for the tie to her dressing gown. It’s strange, Elliot thinks as he watches her, to have a role in this. To be helping her prepare for a date. Even with the knowledge that’s it’s phoney, he can feel it: that white-hot sting of jealousy. It burns like molten lava in his veins, the feeling made worse by the fact that it’s _Porter_ who they’re waiting for; Porter, who, despite everything, means something to Olivia.

 _Meant_ something to Olivia.

Elliot swallows around a sigh. They haven’t talked about it, at least not really, not in a way that wasn’t tied to the context of their case. It’s familiar, that, though. The not talking. Communication has never been their strong suit, not outside the job, not when it came to _them_. He tries not to think about it.

It’s a feat made easy by Olivia’s dressing gown dropping to the floor. Elliot considers not watching but can’t seem to pull his gaze away. He shifts where he lounges on her bed, any thoughts of _talking_ vanishing as he’s met with the bare arch of Olivia’s back. His eyes drag from her shoulders to the dip of her waist, to the black, lace line of her underwear clinging to her hips. She knows he’s looking, because she smiles at him over her shoulder when she steps into her dress, and it’s clear to Elliot that she knows exactly what she’s doing. That she _likes_ it. Likes the power she has over him, the way she can make him squirm. The dress is undone at the back, the neckline sagging against her chest, and she doesn’t ask, but she doesn’t need to; Elliot gets off the bed to help, fingers catching the clasp at Olivia’s neck as she adjusts the skirt.

“Now who’s predictable?” he says. It’s barely more than a murmur; his breath hits the back of her neck, the hair at her nape rustling softly as a shiver runs down her spine. It sends a burst of familiar warmth through Elliot’s abdomen.

Her neck is a sensitive spot, he knows. Has known, for years. He’d figured it out the first time he’d clasped her shoulder, the little hitched breath she’d made when his fingers brushed the dip of her throat a sound that had haunted him for years. He’d tested his hypothesis. Had always, _always,_ gone for the neck when presented with the excuse to touch her. When he’d been proved right, he’d hoarded the knowledge close to his chest, kept it like a secret. A weapon.

He’s always enjoyed watching her come undone, so long as it was by his hand.

“El,” Olivia says when he brushes his fingertips over the base of her neck. It’s not quite a warning—it’s not quite _anything._ She isn’t telling him to stop, but she isn’t spurring him on, either. Elliot takes it as permission to test the waters. He hums, quiet, and breathes so warm air hits where his hand had touched. Olivia shifts where she stands, leaning into him ever-so-slightly. “Morales will be here soon,” she reminds him, quiet, and Elliot smiles.

His mouth is pressed to her ear when he answers. “So we’d better be quick.”

His hands drop to her hips, and she turns so they’re face to face. When he leans to kiss her, she’s waiting, her hands touching his wrist and moving up his arms as she pulls his bottom lip between her teeth. By the time her hands link around his shoulders, he’s panting just a little, his skin flushed with want, desire, _longing._ His grip is tight when his arms wind around her waist, _too_ tight, really, but he can’t find it in him to ease his hold. The image of Olivia sprawled in blood is still clinging to the forefront of his consciousness, the panic that’d gripped him not yet a distant memory— _too tight_ is something he probably should have been expecting. Olivia doesn’t seem to mind either way, and when he kisses her again it doesn’t make any difference. All that matters is the two of them, the feel of her mouth beneath his, her body against his, the way his heart hammers at her touch. It’s like it’s trying to break his chest apart and jump right out of his body; Elliot doesn’t think he’d be surprised if it did.

He steps forward, keeps going until Olivia’s back hits the wall, a gentle desperation overtaking his body. He kisses across her jaw, never once loosening his grip, his mouth moving down until he’s sucking lightly at her neck. His teeth graze the skin but he’s careful not to leave a lasting mark—he knows better than that. Still, Olivia laughs when he does it: A quiet thing, her breath ghosting across his cheek, the sound so _fond_ it nearly knocks him off his feet.

“You do this, you know,” Olivia says. She smooths her hands down over his collar, his shoulders. Digs her nails into the flesh, the pressure light but persistent.

Elliot shifts to catch her eye but doesn’t pull away completely, his palms sliding over her waist to rest just beneath her breasts. “Do what?”

“Get jealous.” She’s matter-of-fact about it. Has a soft, knowing smirk on her face. Brown eyes bore into blue, and Olivia shifts so her hands cover Elliot’s, her body leaning into his. “ _Possessive,”_ she adds, her voice dropping.

Elliot’s first instinct is to deny it, though it isn’t said as if it bothers her. It should, he thinks. It probably would, if the circumstances were different, but he’s still married and she’s made it perfectly clear that she’s not going to be monogamous if _he_ ’s not, and since he’s not willing to take that dive, they’re stuck here, suspended in some sort of limbo, where she lets him act as if he’s got a claim to her but still says she’s single when people ask and still goes on dates when the right people offer and still makes a point to talk about them where he can hear. It’s their own personal penance, Elliot thinks; he knows he’s deserving of much worse.

“I’m not jealous,” he answers eventually. Even as he says it, he can taste traces of the emotion on his tongue. Can taste the _lie._ What’s worse is that he knows Olivia can see right through him.

“No?” she asks, her eyebrow arched. “So you’ve been acting like a toddler who lost his favourite toy all week because, what? You _like_ when people think you’re a territorial bastard?”

For a moment, Elliot simply stares. The lack of genuine heat to Olivia’s words is almost surprising—would be, if he didn’t know her better. If they didn’t have a _history._ Olivia has never been shy about putting him in his place before, and he knows that if it really bothered her, he wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be allowed to do _this._ Still, he feels that defensive urge to deny or justify it, make excuses. Say that he’s not _territorial,_ he’s just protective. Well intentioned.

“I—” he tries, but Olivia only shakes her head.

She pulls him close again and grabs his jaw, and this time, when their mouths meet, it’s just short of harsh. She nips his lip and soothes it with her tongue, her thigh shifting to rub against the hard length of his dick. “If you’re going to act like I’m yours, El,” she says, damp lips grazing his cheek as she speaks, “then remind me why I should be.”

Elliot doesn’t need to be told twice. He kisses her again, presses her to the wall as his hand seeks the hem of her dress. The fabric is pushed up, his fingers slipping between her thighs to touch her through her underwear. He can’t help but smirk when his fingers meet soaked fabric, his eye catching Olivia’s as he strokes her over the lace, the pressure torturously teasing. Her breath hitches at the touch, and her fingers dig into his back, urge him downward.

The command remains unspoken, but Elliot doesn’t need to hear her say it. He drops to the floor in front of her, his mouth following the touch of his hand.

“ _Elliot_ ,” Olivia says as she arches into him. It’s hissed, almost: part prayer, part plea. The sound makes his cock twitch where it strains against his fly, and Elliot has to press his palm against it to quell his own arousal in favour of focusing on Olivia’s.

He hasn’t forgotten their shortage of time. Porter is expected in just under an hour, meaning Morales will be there to bug the place any minute. He can already picture himself answering the door, the taste of Olivia still clinging to his tongue as he stalls, pretends things are perfectly normal, gives Liv enough time to right herself. He can picture Olivia, too. Sitting beside Porter, pretending to be interested while her body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure that _he’d_ given her. He can’t hide it, not from her and not from himself—the whole situation speaks to his possessive streak. Makes him double his efforts at pleasing her.

He wants her to remember why she can’t walk away from him. Wants her to remember why he has every right to be cocky.

He pulls Olivia’s underwear off, splays his free hand over her thigh, and uses the grip to urge her leg over his shoulder. There’s little preamble; there’s no time to tease her like he normally would, no time to reduce her to a wanting, desperate mess, taunt her until he can get her to beg. He leans close and inhales the scent of her before flattening his tongue against her clit, and revels in the way Olivia jolts above him.

She swears, soft, and slides her hand over the back of his head, fingers clutching his nape as he moves his mouth over her cunt, dips his tongue beneath her folds to taste her, give her the pressure she’s aching for. He laughs when she swears again, hums as he sucks on her clit and shifts to slip a finger inside of her, and then another. He feels the soft tremor to her legs, the way she holds him to keep herself steady. If he were to look, he guesses he’d find her with her eyes shut, head back against the wall as she pants quietly, mouth parted but moans silent.

Elliot moves his fingers in tandem with his tongue, listens for the tell-tale signs of Olivia nearing her climax. They’re sounds he knows well—sounds that are burnt into his memory. It always feels like a win to hear Olivia gasp, groan, beg, as if he were bearing witness to a sacred kind of vulnerability. The effect it has on him is undeniable, and now is no different; his body flushes with a special sense of accomplishment as Olivia gasps, her hand holding him against her as her body arches toward his mouth, seeking release. He wishes he could see it, wishes he could see her face flushed with pleasure, the sensation almost unbearable as she teeters on the edge. He knows she must look beautiful. 

When she does come, it’s as a knock sounds at the door. It travels through her apartment, quiet compared to the way she swears, his name moaned between a string of obscenities. Elliot fucks her through it with his fingers, his tongue massaging her oversensitive clit until her legs shake with the strain of staying upright. He doesn’t pull away until she nudges his shoulder, a second, louder knock following the first.

“Shit,” Olivia says, as Elliot gets to his feet.

She’s panting, her face flushed and hair a mess as she leans against the wall, all signs of her earlier stress vanished. The black dress sits bunched around her waist, the material rumpled. No doubt she’s going to need a change if they want to keep their activities a secret, and they both do. Morales might be a good friend, but Elliot knows there’s limits. 

He takes a deep breath and wipes his mouth, licks her arousal off his fingers. He doesn’t miss the way Olivia follows the act. “I’ll get it,” he says, even as his body protests. He’s still flushed with arousal, too hot beneath the collar, his pants too tight; he wants nothing more than to drag Olivia to bed and fuck her until they’re both senseless, but he knows they can’t afford it. Not right now.

Olivia looks at him as if she knows what he’s thinking. “You sure?”

Elliot nods. He turns to rearrange himself, grabs his jacket off the bed. “You can make it up to me later,” he tells her. It’s almost whispered, his voice deep, gravelly. The words filled with a promise.

Olivia smirks at him, a quiet confirmation, and Elliot leans in to give her one last lingering kiss before Morales knocks a third time.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/elliotoiivia) / [tumblr](http://elliot-olivia.tumblr.com/)


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